Mayday

It is me quiet to invent

It is in this quiet me sits

Like the other fragmented ghosts

Yearning for it to be magnificent

These hollow, mercifully darkened,

Sadly dilapidated and ageing holdings of

Our benevolent incarceration.

But it is me who wants to be free

And in its being me embrace it

Without the eight signatories, me finally released

Without your permission, me embed in your spirit

Then follow you home.

Snaffling it up as history

The living come in their luxury cars

Purchase in the surrounding tourists shops

The feed needed for their perpetually renovating homes

Then visits the inmates of Mayday late at night

At its best held within the streaming bands of opaque light that is that big white moon.

But it is me who wants to be free

And in its being I embrace it

Without the eight signatories, I am finally released

Without your permission, me embed in your spirit

Then follow you home.

The time to re-invent

Is deafening as it screeches by

For me it has no granite

No ashes to hold

Only the pauper’s grave

Facing the wayward way

Each of us rejected by the devil

With me bones layered in the ground like wafers,

Me follow you home.

Mayday picture

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